


By the Light of the Flames

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Background Character Death, Dagor Bragollach, Dark, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 19:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18169106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: It's only the flickering light of the flames that makes the crown sitting between them look so malevolent.That's what Maedhros tells himself at least.





	By the Light of the Flames

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the Silmarillion. 
> 
> Lazylizzy3 requested Fingon, Maedhros, "Why am I the one in charge here?" and humor. 
> 
> I achieved the first two. I spectacularly failed at the last.

“We don’t know that he’s dead.”

It’s the first time Fingon hasn’t darted away from the topic since Maedhros arrived - at the request of one of Fingon’s concerned liege people, actually, but Fingon doesn’t have to know that. Fingon’s thrown himself into one of the hundred other things that needs to be done as they frantically shore up their defenses and try to figure out how to proceed, but it’s only now, in the privacy of the deserted receiving hall, as Fingon sits down on the stairs that lead up to the throne and glares at the crown sitting on it, that Fingon speaks of what everyone else is whispering of.

“We don’t know it,” Fingon says stubbornly. “Everyone said you were, and they were wrong. He could still be alive.”

“He could be,” Maedhros agrees cautiously. He sits on the stairs too, on the other side of the deserted throne. He doesn’t glare at the crown like Fingon does, but it pulls at his vision. The crown is not actually a dark, malevolent thing as Morgoth’s is, Maedhros knows. It’s good elvish gold. It’s only in the dim light of the fire, fire that they’ve so lately come to fear, that it looks so … hungry.

Fingon jumps on his agreement. “And if he’s alive, then we need to be getting him out, not - not worrying about all this nonsense about a coronation.”

His horse came back with an empty saddle, Maedhros thinks of saying. His horse came back and died of no physical ailment anyone could find. 

But that’s hardly conclusive. It’s not a body, like Maedhros saw of his own father, bleeding and broken and turning to ash beneath his hands - 

Morgoth had tormented his dreams with that moment, weaving it into the burning of the boats and the blood at Alqualonde, and now it mixes freely with his own dreams of this latest battle, from which he has still not heard word of Caranthir and the twins. 

Blood and fire, fire and blood. Sometimes he thinks this whole continent will be nothing but ash by the end, turned to mud by gallon after gallon of his family’s blood.

He drags himself out of his dark thoughts and says as gently as he can, “I don’t think you’ll be able to just walk into Angband this time, Fingon.”

Fingon slumps. “No. I suppose you’re right. But still - as long as there’s a chance - ” He looks up at Maedhros pleadingly. “I’ll do the work. I’ve _been_ doing the work. Can’t we just leave the crown waiting for him for when - for when we get him back?”

Maedhros hesitates. As foolish as it is, part of him superstitiously doesn’t want to see that crown on Fingon’s head.

But not wearing the crown hadn’t saved Elenwe, Argon, Aegnor, or Angrod. Not wearing it won’t save Fingon either. 

“Even if we do get him back, he can’t … He won’t be able to rule, Fingon,” Maedhros says quietly, hating that he has to. Images of other recovered thralls haunt him.

As do the dark moments of the night when he knows that he’s a fool to trust himself.

Fingon stands abruptly, looking as if he might start shouting, but he turns away instead.

“Turgon and Aredhel won’t even know,” he whispers. “Assuming they’re still alive.”

There’s been no word from Turgon’s planned city since they set out.

Just as there has been no word from Fingolfin, save his horse.

There is a very real possibility that Fingon is the last of his house, save his mother, back in Aman. Maedhros can only imagine that pain.

Maedhros rises and walks over to his cousin, laying his one remaining hand on his cousin’s shoulder. It’s the only comfort he can give. “Wear the crown,” he says quietly. _Don’t go running off after your father like everyone’s afraid you will._ “Wear the crown, and you can put together armies enough to win him back.”

Or, failing that, armies enough to get revenge.

Fingon hesitates before nodding with renewed strength. “Alright, Maedhros. You win.” 

“Good,” he says with heartfelt relief.

At least he tells himself it’s relief.

He doesn’t look back at the crown as he leaves.

It’s only the light of the flames that make it look so hungry.

Surely, surely, it’s just the light.


End file.
